The air in the room shifts.
Logan barely has time to blink before Carter lunges, shoving him hard enough that his drink sloshes over his hand. "You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?"
Logan stumbles back with a laugh, holding up his hands like he’s innocent. "What? Just making conversation."
Carter seethes. "You know exactly what you’re doing, asshole."
Logan shrugs, still grinning. "What? Thought the golden boy could handle a little locker room talk."
Carter swings. Before he can land the punch, Lyla grabs his arm, yanking him back with more strength than her tiny frame should be capable of.
"Jesus, Carter!" she grunts, trying to pull him away before he does something that gets them all in trouble.
Carter struggles, his chest heaving, his jaw tight. "He deserves to get his ass kicked!"
Lyla groans, her fingers digging into his arm. "Not arguing that. Just not right here."
Logan just smirks, shaking his head as he takes another sip of his beer. "Relax, Hayes. Not my fault the kid finally grew a pair."
Carter lunges again, but Lyla yanks harder, this time dragging him fully back. "Enough!"
He growls, his fists still clenched, his body rigid as he watches Logan with pure disgust. Carter glares for another beat, breathing hard, before finally stepping back.
But not before pointing a finger at Logan. "Watch your mouth, or I will shut it for you."
With that, he turns on his heel, storming off toward the kitchen, Lyla hot on his heels.
I feel it before I fully understand it. I feel my stomach twist, feel my throat tighten, feel panic creep into my limbs like wildfire.
My pulse pounds in my ears, and before I even realize I’m moving, I’m on my feet.
I mumble something—an excuse, a lie, a half-hearted attempt at pretending like my chest isn’t tightening so much, it hurts.
I push through the crowd, through the throng of bodies pressing in on all sides, through the noise, the laughter, the music.
I bolt.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
I don’t understand why this is making me spiral.
"Mads, wait!"
Jaxon’s voice is urgent, sharp with something I don’t have the capacity to unpack right now.
I push forward, almost making it to the front door before I feel him behind me. His presence is impossible to ignore, his hands gripping my wrist, pulling me back just enough to stop me from leaving.
"Madison."
My name is a plea on his lips, but I don’t know if I can handle hearing what he has to say.
38
JAXON
Ipush through the crowd, dodging bodies, barely registering the music or the laughter still echoing through the house.
